Part of me wanted to make this a poem. But, let’s face it, I’m not that good:
We are born, filling in a void with existence. We are a universe unto ourselves. A concentration of pure energy, we grow quickly. For the first time, our nebulous character begins to take shape. We can never know what lies beyond ourselves, but we find comfort in our friendships; they begin to form, these points of bright light that fill the void within us.
At first, the lights fill us, their violent births, lives, and deaths nearly consume us. Our stars take the smallest pieces of us and, in destroying them, change them, building them up so that we can build ourselves up. These points of light in our vast expanses give context to the rest of us. We know they won’t stay the same; every now and then, an explosion will take place. The star will be changed forever, becoming something less intense, more dense. And, even in its death, it will send its destructive creation to the far reaches within us.
When the light is gone, whether it becomes a black hole within us or an everlasting invisible beacon depends on how much we put into it while it was still lit.
There are two forces within me. One is part of my nature, the other is a gift.
I strive to achieve a balance in all things; stability is my destination. I constantly rearrange myself so that everything will be predictable, constant, at rest.
As I spread myself out, these births and deaths become, if not less violent, less common. I exchange the violent vitality of my youth for expansion and constancy. The entropy within me is almost at war with the creation that the alien points of light bring me. I don’t know what to do with them. I find much of myself drawn to them, even knowing that, once embraced, they will eventually reject me. But what choice do I have? It seems that the stars were made solely to draw me in. What kind of existence would I have without them? And my forces continue to battle.
What does my future hold? Do I continue to expand, slowly watching the violent light within me extinguish itself, finally succumbing to my need for stability? Or do I turn in toward myself, eventually collapsing in a burst of light and heat, my death as intense as my birth?
Will I then re-form, or will I be a memory, existing in a dimension of which I am no longer a part. I wonder.